by Amy Ewing
He turns his back while I undress—the robe is not like the disposable ones I wore at Southgate, but made of white terrycloth, though there is no belt to keep it closed. I wrap my arms tightly around my torso, glancing nervously at the tray of silver instruments.
“Please, sit,” Dr. Blythe says, indicating the hospital bed.
I relax a little as he conducts the exam, similar to the hundreds of others I had at Southgate. He goes through routine checks of my ears, nose, eyes, throat, takes my temperature and my blood pressure, makes notations on a clipboard, checks my reflexes. He asks the usual, unpleasant questions about my monthly cycle.
“Don’t you have this stuff from the doctors at Southgate?” I ask.
Dr. Blythe smiles. “I like to be thorough,” he says. He marks something down on his clipboard, then begins to attach tiny electrodes to my temples, the insides of my wrists, then moves to open my robe. “May I?”
I look up at him, startled. “You’re the first one to ask,” I say.
He smiles and gently places two electrodes on either side of my stomach, just below the line of my underwear, then one on my chest, over my heart. He carefully lifts each of my legs, placing electrodes on the backs of my knees, and then two on the arches of my feet. And finally, he attaches one to the nape of my neck and one at the base of my spine.
“I assume you’ve only had the head and uterine monitors before?” Dr. Blythe says. I nod. “Well, we like to be a little more accurate, now that you’re entering the more . . . practical phase of your surrogacy.”
“Am I going to use the Auguries?” I ask. Whenever the doctors used the monitors at Southgate, it always involved an Augury test.
“Yes, but don’t worry. Just once for each one.” He walks to the wall and presses a red button—a flat white screen descends from the ceiling next to the hospital bed. Pulling up a stool, he sits and taps the corner of the screen—it begins to glow, different colored squares of light checkering its smooth surface. Then he angles the screen so I can’t see it.
“Violet,” he says, “you are a very special young woman.” I fight the impulse to roll my eyes as the doctor touches something on the screen and a yellow glow illuminates his face. “Surrogates have confounded the medical community for centuries, since the very beginning of the Auction. I assume you know your history?”
“The royalty was dying out,” I say, repeating what I was told so many times at Southgate. “Their babies were born sick or deformed, and died. Some of them couldn’t have babies at all. Surrogates allow the royalty to survive. The Auguries help repair the chromosomal damage to royal embryos.”
“Precisely,” says Dr. Blythe. “Bloodline is very important to the royalty, but when there are only so many fish in the sea . . .” He taps at the screen. “It was Dr. Osmium Corre, perhaps the most renowned physician in the history of the Lone City, who discovered the first surrogates.” This time, I can’t help rolling my eyes. All the doctors at Southgate loved talking about Dr. Corre. Raven used to joke that they probably had shrines built to him in their houses. “He identified a strange genetic mutation, found only in young women from the poorest of the five circles—the Marsh—which allowed the royalty to continue having their own children without the risk of birth defects or premature death. But there is more to the Auguries than the miracle of healthy babies. Each Augury is attached to a certain developmental aspect. For instance“—he reaches out to the tray and picks up a large blue marble from among the silver instruments—”the first Augury, Color, affects certain physical aspects of the child.”
He gives me the marble—it is heavier than I expected, and very smooth. “Make this red, please.”
Once to see it as it is. Twice to see it in your mind. Thrice to bend it to your will.
I draw up the image in my mind, and cracks of red appear on the smooth blue surface. In less than a second, the marble is red. A dull ache pulses behind my left ear, and I rub it absentmindedly.
“Very good,” Dr. Blythe says, touching a few more things on the screen. “The first Augury can influence skin color, hair color, eye color . . . it is the easiest of the Auguries. Quite superficial.”
I’d never considered that the Auguries would affect anything else except the health of the child. They never told us that at Southgate. But the Duchess’s instructions, her expectations of me, are beginning to make sense.
“Now,” Dr. Blythe continues, “can you make a star for me?”
The image of a star appears in my head. I close my hand around the marble. My fingers tingle as I feel myself affecting it—the marble becomes malleable, like putty, and when I open my hand, it has turned transparent, scarlet glass. As I draw the lines of the star over and over in my mind, the marble ripples and assumes the shape I want. My headache gets worse.
“Excellent.” More notations are made on the screen. “The second Augury, Shape, affects, as you might have guessed, the physical shapes of the child—the length of the legs, the shape of the face or eyes or nose. It also affects organ size, and so is very important to the health of the child. Many women value Shape above the other two Auguries for this reason.”
Dr. Blythe takes the star from my hand and puts it back on the tray. My spine stiffens, the pain in my head sharp and staccato, like the beat of a drum. I know what’s coming next.
He hands me a flower, just a small bud, petals folded tightly in on themselves—I run my fingers along the stem.
“Make it grow?” I say before he can suggest it. He smiles and nods. I take a deep breath.
The life in this flower is not nearly as strong as in the lemon tree because the flower has been cut. It will die soon. I pull at the wisps of life easily, the familiar sensation of needles boring into my eyes only a mild irritation as the bud explodes into a rose, its petals unfolding in rich waves of dark pink. My nose doesn’t even bleed.
I drop the rose on the tray. For a second, I can still feel its life, shimmering in my veins. Then it’s gone.
Dr. Blythe’s eyebrows are raised. “How are you feeling?” he asks.
I ignore the pain in my head and shrug. “All right.”
“That was faster than I had expected. Very impressive.”
“I was the best third-Augury student at Southgate.” I can’t keep the pride out of my voice.
“You were the best third-Augury score at the Auction,” he says.
I pick at a loose thread on the robe. “The Duchess said there haven’t been many perfect scores in Growth.”
Dr. Blythe nods. “She is correct. Though the ranking itself is cumulative. Lot 200 was an outstanding talent at all three, especially given her age. It is a tragedy that she was never able to bear a child.”
My eyes itch, thinking of Dahlia.
“Did you know her well?” he asks. “I was told you reacted rather forcefully to her death.”
“Does that happen often?” I ask quietly. “That surrogates are . . . killed?”
Dr. Blythe’s mouth tightens. “You do not need to worry about that. The Duchess will take extremely good care of you.” He taps the screen a few more times, then clears his throat.
“The third Augury, Growth, is very tricky,” he continues. “If successful, it can affect intelligence, creativity, ambition . . . the personality of the child can be influenced.”
“How is it tricky?” I ask. It’s a little overwhelming, to think that I can custom-make a child.
“It does not always work. We are not sure why sometimes the child comes out with the qualities the mother suggested and desired, and other times with an entirely different result, sometimes an unpleasant one. Often, royal women do not even bother with Growth, because it is so temperamental. But if successful, it can be truly extraordinary. However, usually at the expense of the other two Auguries. It is a risk.”
“And this is why the Duchess bought me?” I say. “Because I’m so good at Growth?”
“Has she spoken to you already?”
I nod. “She gave me a whole list
of qualities she wants her baby to have. But I don’t know how to do any of it.”
“Not just that, Violet,” Dr. Blythe says. “She wants her daughter to be born first. She believes that, with your abilities, her child can be born much faster than the usual nine months. And that it will be . . . more advanced than your typical infant. You can speed up the developmental process, as well as the physical.”
I feel light-headed. “How quickly do you expect me to have this baby?”
Dr. Blythe’s lips press together. “Our goal is three months. One month per trimester.”
Three months. Hysteria bubbles up inside me. “What?” I say. “That’s crazy.”
The doctor just smiles. “We’ll see.”
“Why didn’t they tell us this at Southgate? The Auguries, I mean, what they can really do.”
Dr. Blythe types a few more notes, then begins to remove the electrodes. “Violet, they do not tell you anything at Southgate. They do not even allow you to look at yourselves in a mirror. The less you know, the less identity you have, the easier you are to control.”
“Then why tell me now?”
“Because your cooperation is vital to the process. And because there is nothing you can do about it now. You are isolated in the Duchess’s palace. You will have no further contact with your family, or your friends. You will never leave the Jewel.” Dr. Blythe presses the red button and the screen disappears into the ceiling. “When you have delivered the Duchess’s daughter, you will be sterilized and sent to a facility very much like Southgate, where you will live out the rest of your life with the other surrogates who have fulfilled their purpose.”
Back to a holding facility? So I’ll always be living under someone else’s rules, even after my job here is over.
“The Duchess said the royalty can only have one boy and one girl,” I say. “Do I control that, too?”
“No,” Dr. Blythe replies. “That is in the hands of the doctors.”
“Why can they only have two children?”
“To maintain the purity of blood and, I suppose you could say, the exclusiveness of their club. One child retains the family title while the other is married off to form an alliance with a desirable House. Alliances are always changing here.” He sighs and shakes his head. “The Duchess is very disappointed with her son. She has extremely high hopes for her daughter.”
The doctor turns away as I slip back into my nightdress. His words swirl around in my head. A baby made in three months. But how can the Duchess believe that I would ever willingly want to help her?
UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE
HarperCollins Publishers
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Twelve
THE FOLLOWING MORNING, I’M IN THE TEA PARLOR, SIPPING coffee and trying not to think about the doctor’s appointment, when the Duchess arrives.
“Come with me,” she says.
It’s happening. That’s all I can think. She’s taking me back to Dr. Blythe. I can’t seem to make myself stand.
“Where are we going, my lady?” I ask in a half whisper. Annabelle shoots me a sharp look that I don’t understand. The Duchess frowns, as if she doesn’t think I should be allowed to ask questions at all.
“I have something I wish to show you. Get up.”
My bones feel spongy as I follow her out of my chambers, back through the open gallery, and I think I know where we’re going and my heart starts to panic. But then the Duchess turns down a different hall, by the main staircase, and my relief is so acute it’s painful.
Across from the staircase is a set of double doors with golden handles shaped like wings. The Duchess turns to me.
“Dr. Blythe is very optimistic—he feels you will be able to perform the tasks I require. This makes me exceedingly pleased. So.” She opens the doors with a flourish, and I smell something warm, like wood and fabric and dust, with a hint of pine. Then I see what’s behind the doors, and my mouth falls open.
It’s a concert hall. Row upon row of seats, upholstered in red velvet, lead up to a massive proscenium stage framed by thick red curtains with golden tassels. Awe pulls me forward, my feet sinking into the burgundy carpet as I run my fingers over the soft armrests on the seats. The vaulted ceiling is gilded in gold and copper, and glowglobes bathe the room in a rich, warm light. A mezzanine wraps around the upper floor, even more seats stretching higher and higher. I couldn’t have imagined a more incredible place to play music, except maybe the Royal Concert Hall.
As if on cue, two footmen appear onstage—one is carrying a chair and a music stand, the other, my cello.
“You may play here whenever you wish, as often as you like,” the Duchess says. “I hope it will make you . . . happy.” She doesn’t sound particularly sincere, but I don’t care. My fingers are already itching for my bow. The acoustics in this room must be amazing.
“Can I play now?” I ask, hurriedly adding, “My lady?”
“Of course,” the Duchess says. She leaves and Annabelle takes her place—she must have followed us here. I walk down the carpeted aisle and up onto the stage.
I’ve never been on a stage before. Looking out over the vast expanse of empty seats, I feel a shiver of excitement. There is so much expectation in them. The only pictures in Lily’s magazines that ever interested me were the ones of the concerts. I take my seat and close my eyes, pressing the cello between my knees. I imagine I’m in the Royal Concert Hall and the seats are filled with people in beautiful clothing, all waiting with anticipation to hear me play. I listen to the rustle of their programs, and the whispered conversations that stop as soon as I raise my bow. They are so eager for my performance that with one simple gesture, I can silence a room. I play a courante in C Major, and when I finish, their applause is deafening. I select another piece from the many suites I have memorized, then another, and another. I play for hours. Here, I can pretend that this is my occupation, not baby-maker but musician, a professional, as well respected as Stradivarius Tanglewood.
It’s late afternoon when I finally stop, exhilarated. Annabelle claps, a tiny flutter of sound in the vast, empty hall.
Done?
“For today, I think,” I reply.
Sounds beautiful
“Thanks,” I say with a grin. “I hope you didn’t get bored.”
Annabelle smiles and shakes her head. She presses a button on the wall by a smaller set of doors, and a minute later, two footmen appear to take my cello and the chair back to my room.
“What should we do now?” I ask, climbing down the stairs to the stage and joining Annabelle in the audience. I’m riding a jittery sort of high.
Tour?
“Of the palace?”
Annabelle nods.
“I’d love one.”
THE CONCERT HALL IS NOT THE ONLY IMPRESSIVE ROOM in the palace of the Lake.
The upper floor is filled mostly with studies and reading rooms. There is a room full of urns that Annabelle tells me contain the ashes of previous Dukes and Duchesses of the Lake, which I find really creepy, but she assures me that every palace has such a room. There are more art galleries, and guest quarters, but Annabelle only shows half of the upper floor, avoiding the eastern wing.
“What’s over there?” I ask.
Men’s quarters
“Oh. That’s where the Duke sleeps?”
Annabelle nods.
And Garnet
“Right,” I say, picturing the Duchess’s handsome son. And then, because I can’t help myself, I ask, “Is he here now?”
At school, back this eve
“Oh.” I fiddle with a button on my dress. “He’s very good-looking, isn’t he?”
Annabelle blushes.
Very
She underlines the word twice and I giggle.
The ground floor is even more of a maze than the upper floor. Annabelle shows me the ballroom, with its parquet flooring and wide, arching windows—a mural is painted on the ceiling, a
brilliant blue sky dotted with fleecy white clouds and various colored birds. There is a main drawing room that looks out onto the lake, and a wide, airy gallery filled with nothing but white marble sculptures. We pass by a closed door that emits an unpleasant, pungent smell.
“What’s in there?” I ask.
Annabelle makes a face.
Duke’s smoking room
“Where is the Duke anyway?” I ask. “I mean, what does he do, exactly?”
Annabelle smirks.
Whatever D tells him to
I laugh.
The last room she shows me is the library, and I’m immediately in love. It is enormous, with high ceilings and stained-glass windows, and it smells wonderfully of old paper, and binding glue, and leather. Long wooden ladders slide along the shelves, and golden spiral staircases lead up to the balcony.
There is an open reading area in its center, with leather armchairs and overstuffed couches scattered around an enormous circular table. The table is studded with little jeweled trinkets that at first I think are brooches—but as I get closer, I see that they’re crests. I recognize the circle-and-trident of the House of the Lake.
“What’s this?” I ask.
Royal Houses of Jewel
“All of them?” There must be hundreds of crests, arranged within circles of thin silver lines. In the center is the crowned flame of the Royal Palace. The four closest to it must be the four founding Houses. But the others . . . “See, this is why I never paid attention in royal culture and lifestyle,” I say. “There’re just too many Houses to keep track of.”
Annabelle suppresses a smile. She points to the center crest.
Exetor
“I got that one,” I say. “And those four are the founding Houses, right?”
She nods and indicates the next circle, maybe forty or so crests.
1st tier Houses
Then the secondary circle, with about a hundred.
2nd tier
And finally, the outer circle, with the largest number of crests.
